


Perspective- Ranboo

by hnggaywrites



Category: Dream SMP - Freeform - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dissociation, Enderman Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Enderwalking Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Immortal Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft, NO NASTIES, Overstimulation, Overthinking, Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), The Disc War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), The Inbetween on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), The Panic Room, derealisation, enderwalking, i am asking you to read the tags thx, its sort of hinted at thats where he travells thru, not nsfw, not really but someone enters the finale room, pretty big description of a sensory overload, there can be some triggering stuff ig, well technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 22:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hnggaywrites/pseuds/hnggaywrites
Summary: Ranboo wakes up in an obsidian room.Ranboo sits in an obsidian room.Ranboo is crushed in an obsidian room.Ranboo is fine.------------------That stream where Ranboo visits the Finale Room or whatever it's called, Dream's big manipulation room, but rewritten because I want to make this dramatic. This will be submitted for Ranboo's Discord Writing Comp, and so is not plagerised. I would like some constructive criticism on this please!
Kudos: 34





	Perspective- Ranboo

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE PLEASE READ: TW  
> This work contains descriptions, mentions or examples or derealisation, disassociation and a sensory overload. please do not read this if these are triggers for you, I am warning you right now, there will be descriptions of them.  
> it isn't describe as much compared to the rest, but if contemplating death/ what will happen after your death is something that triggers you, please don't read this either, because it does happen a little around the middle.  
> your mental health is something more important than reading a fic, please click out if any of these trigger you.  
> thank you <3
> 
> just to make this very clear, this is being submitted as part of a competition, and is written by @HngGay on twitter! drop a follow if you like this, and i would love to hear constructive criticism before i submit it.  
> I might end up making this a series... maybe?? if that's something anyone wants.

Ranboo sits alone. He is too tall, too lanky, and too awkward to fit in this small room of terror and panic. There are scribbles on the walls and a slot in the floor (for the haunted tunes that float in and out of his dreams), and the room is overall messy.

Ranboo couldn’t care less. 

The mess of the room, or at least to him, doesn’t lie in the disorganization of the writing or the hastily placed jukebox on the floor.

It lies in the jagged edges in the obsidian, in the scratches in the walls and in the hastily boarded up exit.

The walls are bare, save for a few hastily scrambled messages he ignores.

He’s too far in his head now, inside the maze of uncertainty and the prison of his creation.

Something leaps out of the shadows of the misty hallways he wanders through and he screeches, his jaw unhinging as he clutches at his face and eyes, desperately gasping as he looks around him, but all he sees are cryptic symbols and eldritch creatures.

Mouths.

Fingers.

Eyes.

Everyone on this server was a little bit broken, but what was spoken from the tongues of these people was something that could never be taken back. What blood was spilled on the scabbards of swords, and what stained their fingernails could never be returned. The tears shed alone could never be replaced. Here, Ranboo was not safe, he could pretend he was not one of them.

His mind whirs to life with a thousand reasons to leave and ten thousand reasons to stay, and images flash by accompanied by bitter memories and painful tales.

He thinks of the people he knows, their legacies and their reputations. Not a single one lives up to the Watcher’s expectations but he knows them better.

Dream’s famous silver tongue and his infamous shining sword. They made a pair, a match made in hell. Ranboo, had, unfortunately, felt the touch of both.

Tommy’s disks, always clutched tight in his fingers, holding onto them tightly as if he let go he would lose his life as well. Ranboo knows Tommy still can’t make it through a story without stumbling over Wilbur’s name. He wonders if his dead, cold hands are still holding them. Probably not.

Phil’s axe, heavy and unfamiliar in his hands, hanging in a spot on his back where his glorious avian wings once were. Fight or flight, the choice has been made for him and so his head hangs heavy.

The shadowing mist around him collects in meaningless shapes, but one has a particular yellow tint to it which reminds him of Ghostbur. He hadn’t talked much to the ghost of the leader of Pogtopia, and from what he could tell, the leader of a lot of trauma as well. He wondered if Wilbur knew his innocent spirit was still living.

His mind wanders to Niki, and he wonders if he is the first. That girl is always the afterthought, the aftermath of an event. Privately, he believed she deserved her moment among the flames and rubble of L’manburg, burnt leaves in her hair and a flint and steel in her blistered and broken hands.

He thinks of Tubbo, much the same as Niki in a way. Ranboo may have been one of the first to separate Tubbo from something, from everything. To him, Tubbo wasn’t Tommy’s poor grieving friend, or the President of L’manburg, or the Bee Boy, or even Big Law or any of his other aliases. He was just simply..... Tubbo. And that was enough.

Eret. Eret, whose traitorous reputation lives on through L’manburg’s own history books and its songs. Eret seems to be like a relic from another time, when a button being pressed was their biggest worry. Eret has never seemed like the Eret Tommy so passionately recounts as a traitor, and more like a shell of a former king. His former legacy.

His mind leads him back to the thought that has been haunting him for the past few days. What is his legacy? Who will remember Ranboo?

Will it be his beloved husband, who will leave flowers at his grave with a blank face. Will it be his dear child, who will continue down his father's path?

Will it be his mentor, who will tell his story as a cautionary tale? Or would it be the immortal, who will step into a new century long after they are all just history books?

Would Dream mourn Ranboo? Would he mourn the loss of his puppet, the lack of fun he would have?

They were both trapped in obsidian cells, surrounded by thick liquid that burns. A million locks both keep them sitting there, backs pressed to the wall. They are too similar for comfort, far too similar.

With these realizations comes the opening of new doors in the corridor Ranboo had been absentmindedly meandering around, still trapped in his mind.

Doors slammed behind him, walkways he hadn’t realized he had walked through ceasing existence.

The corridor was taking a more structured form now. Before, it had seemed to form where he was walking, but now it had a purpose.

An end was in sight, the outline of a door clear now. 

He walked with more purpose now, a low vwoop escaping his throat.

It wasn’t... quite a door. The enderwalker traced the black, hard frame. 

He liked the sparkles coming out of the purple hazey door. They reminded him of something, a past he couldn’t remember that was just out of reach. Of home.

Something caught his eye from behind the frame, something moving. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted it. He lunged forwards through the door.

Ranboo’s vision swirled, his stomach twisting and turning. He felt himself being sucked through something and spat out. 

He landed unsteadily outside of a similar doorframe and his mind went blank.

-

Ranboo came to on the floor of a giant obsidian room. His first thought was, irrationally, that he had shrunk and his panic room was too big for him.

Then he spotted a corridor and an elevator, and knew he was somewhere different. The prison, perhaps? 

He hadn’t seen this part of the prison yet, but again, how many other massive obsidian and black stone buildings were there on the server?

Turning the face the portal, he noticed why his ribs might have been hurting. A barrier had been constructed in front of the portal, with only a small break that he must have squeezed through. 

If he was in the prison.... why had the thing protecting the portal been broken?

_ Get away from him _

He whipped around, terrified. He wasn’t prepared for a fight but he pulled his sword out nonetheless. He was suddenly too aware of the fact he was not wearing armor.

There was no one there. 

Keeping his sword up, he slowly approached the corridor to the side, making sure to keep an eye on the portal and the elevator.

There was no one there. There was no one there.

He was hearing voices again. And this one wasn’t Dream.

Actually, this voice sounded a lot like Sapnap. What, was his subconscious trying to collect the whole Dream Team? Was he going to hear Gogy scolding him for burning down his house next?

_ Everything that anyone’s ever loved is right here, if I can control that, I can control everything _

He whipped around, arms above his head in the defensive position Techno had been teaching him. Ranboo’s heart was beating out of his chest, every movement made him flinch and every sound had the blood in his ears rushing.

The Dream voice was back. He thought it was gone. It was gone. Why was it back? Why now?

_ You can’t kill him, because he’s the only one who can bring Wilbur back.  _

Dream has the power…. to bring people back. Was this all planned? Had Dream planned this all to prove a point?

He needed to go, Ranboo needed to go. He was panicking, the implications of that man, that voice, that person being able to bring people back, bring people who hurt this server back.

Dream needed to go, why was he the only one who could see that? Why was he the only one willing to take action against the tyrant?

Ranboo suddenly felt trapped in the familiar blackstone and obsidian walls. He didn’t usually run into bedrock, but he felt hopeful to never again. The rough blocks under his feet, his bare feet (why didn’t he have his armor, why wasn’t he protected?) felt so strongly, that he had to sink to the floor and pull his feet up to his chest.

He felt so helpless, curled up in the fetal position while trying not to touch the floor. Everything suddenly was so heavy on his skin. His clothes hung heavy on his body, every strand of hair poking like needles into his skull.

Ranboo almost wished he could go back into his second state, where he at least didn’t have to remember this. The texture imprinting itself into his skin felt like the same skin deep burn as when he touched water, and he could almost feel the scars like the ones on his cheeks forming.

_ I’m sorry Dream, you should have paid me more _

The voice was too loud, everything was too _ loud. _

His mind was fading out. Was.. he supposed to pay someone something? Was he dreaming?

The feelings faded from his bones and he managed to sit up, the white haze filtering through his vision again. He let it take him, and he slid his back up the walls again, his knees tucked in again. 

With his back to the wall and his mind going, taken by the alluring haze, he breathes out, and he  _ forgets.  _

_ Ranboo sits alone, and he always will. _

_ :) _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!  
> follow me on twt: @HngGay  
> again, please tell me if there is anything else I need to tag as a TW, because I don't think I have missed something, but for the health of someone else, I would feel terrible if I missed a trigger!  
> <3


End file.
